


What Is Dead Can Never Die

by Nary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blasphemy, Breasts, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunkenness, F/M, Incest, Teasing, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victarion, once again, had no luck with wives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Is Dead Can Never Die

Asha strode into the hall as though she owned it. "Father," she called joyfully, "I've returned!"

"So I can see," retorted Balon Greyjoy sharply, but there was an obvious relief and affection in his sour voice. "Bearing treasures untold, no doubt."

"Some trinkets from pirates out of Lys, at least, stolen from their rightful owners. The Arbor's a little poorer tonight, and at least a dozen maids lie weeping in their beds for lovers who'll not return," his daughter said cheerfully.

"Aye, you seized their lovers for yourself, I'll wager, between those strong thighs of yours!" called out Red Rolfe, sending up a roar of laughter from the assembled lords and captains.

"Come between my thighs and see what I seize of yours," Asha retorted with a crooked smile. "But remember, what I seize, I keep. There were eighteen casks of Arbor gold on that pirate ship, but you don't sound like a man who wants me to crack one of them open to share."

There were calls for forgiveness then, and fulsome praise of her beauty and might, so Asha, laughing, relented and gave the order for two of her crew to bring in the wine. She took her accustomed seat at her father's right hand and turned to speak with him more quietly, insofar as any conversation could be quiet under the roar of the assembled ironmen.

"Is all well?" Balon's frown and his thin fingers tapping the arm of the Seastone Chair gave her all the answer she needed. Asha had immediately noted the empty seats where her uncles usually sat, and gathered that something had transpired during her absence. Her father's expression told her it was nothing good. "Where are they?"

"Aeron is off drowning his followers on Saltcliffe." That was nothing out of the ordinary – Damphair was regularly absent in the name of the faith.

"And Victarion? Euron?"

Her father grimaced. "Euron is gone, and I'll hear no more spoken of him. Victarion you'll likely find in his chamber, but I doubt he'd wish to be disturbed."

Asha arched an eyebrow. "Has he taken a new salt wife already?"

"No, lost one." And her father refused to tell her any further what had happened, retiring to his chambers shortly after. It took plying Dagmer Cleftjaw with the promise of another stolen cask of wine to gain the story – how Victarion's newest wife had died and Euron Crow's Eye had sailed away in haste. Dagmer had any number of interpretations of the events, ranging from far-fetched to downright impossible, but it seemed most plausible to Asha that Euron had murdered the woman and then fled for his life. It would be in Euron's character to end the poor woman's life over some perceived slight. Asha sighed. Victarion, once again, had no luck with wives.

When the drinking was in full swing and men had begun to draw their blades to dance the finger dance, Asha slipped away from the hall. She was still glad to be home, but no longer in any mood for celebration. Her uncles' rooms were in the Thunderstone Tower, not far from the Great Keep, connected by a covered archway pierced with narrow windows, as much for safety as for light. Asha remembered vividly how her father had explained to her when she was little more than a babe how the sea wind would tear the stone apart if it weren't given some passage to blow its way through. She'd had nightmares for weeks after about the howling wind breaking down their walls, smashing stone to dust and sending them tumbling into the foaming water below. When Robert Baratheon and his men had come years later, it had seemed like her childhood terror come to life when the South Tower fell.

The wind whipped through her short hair, still tangled from the sea air. She was ashamed to admit she couldn't remember the name of Victarion's last salt-wife. Deelie or Deena or something of that sort... it had started with 'D', anyhow, she thought. She'd been pretty, with a sweet voice for a song, but after that Asha drew a blank.

Euron's chamber would no doubt be empty now – she passed it by, though she was temped to push the door open and see what he might have left behind. Perhaps on her way back. She made her way instead up the winding stairs to Victarion's door. A basket of food had been left there, no doubt by some well-intentioned servant, but it had been sitting there long enough for the bread to go stale. Asha hesitated only a moment before raising her fist to the boards and knocking.

There was a muffled curse from inside. Asha knocked again. "Nuncle, it's me. Open the door." After some rustling and muttering and one alarming crash that sounded like a bottle breaking, the door swung on its hinges. Cautiously, Asha stepped inside.

The room was dark, lit only by moon and star-light that poured in through the open windows. The wind that had confined itself to snarling her hair in the passageway between the towers now buffeted her fiercely and chilled her to the bone. Glass glinted on the floor, and she stepped carefully around the remains of a bottle of burnwine, the fumes of which infused the air with a pungent headiness that was quickly being overwhelmed by the salt scent of the ocean. "Nuncle," she said again, clicking her tongue in disapproval. Burnwine was costly, and not easily come by – it was a shame to waste it.

Victarion was sprawled half on the floor, half against his mattress, as if he'd tried to return there once the door was open and not quite succeeded. Grabbing him under the armpits, Asha heaved him the rest of the way onto the bed, which looked as though he'd been living in it for several days. He stank of wine and salt and sweat, despite the chill in the air. With a groan and a creak of the bed's ropes, he rolled onto his back. His long hair was tangled and the bristles on his cheeks glinted like tarnished silver in the moonlight. "You're back," he slurred.

"And in one piece," she said. "Unlike your poor bottle of burnwine."

"More where that came from." He waved a hand in the direction of a chest at the foot of his bed. Asha found the lid half-smashed, but the few remaining bottles inside were still intact. She pulled one out and held it up to admire the way the pale light shone through it before she gripped the cork in her teeth and pulled it free, spitting it across the room where it bounced and rolled, no doubt to join many of its fellows. She took a swig and felt the hard blaze that gave the drink its name sear down her throat.

"That's good," she rasped, circling back around to the bedside. "And by the looks of things, you've put a good deal of it away in the past few days." She could see at least two other empty bottles, and there were no doubt others hidden in the darker corners of the chamber. She dangled the bottle just out of reach of his grasping fingers. "Ah ah," she warned him. "You'll spill it if you don't sit up, and I refuse to allow any more of it to go to waste."

Grimacing, Victarion pulled himself up until he was nearly sitting upright, and snatched the bottle from her, pressing it greedily to his lips and swallowing mouthful after mouthful, the fiery liquid running in rivulets through his beard. Finally, with a groan, he let the bottle fall to his side, listing slightly neck-down. Asha quickly tipped it upwards so no more spilled, sitting herself down on the edge of the bed. "So," she said evenly, "your wife is dead."

Victarion's eyes closed, or at least she could no longer see the whites glint in the moonlight. "Don't speak of her." His voice rumbled low in his chest, and Asha knew she was treading the edge of a dangerous cliff, one that might crumble under her feet at any moment.

"Well. What's dead can never die..." she began, meaning to close the subject.

As she spoke the common platitudes, Victarion suddenly lunged at her, gripping her by the throat and throwing her onto her back, knocking the wind out of her. "The crabs ate her body. She. Is. Dead." He punctuated each word with a squeeze of her neck, tighter and tighter, until, in panic, she jabbed her knee into the fork of his legs and sent him rolling off her, cursing and groaning. The contents of the forgotten bottle soaked slowly through the woolen blankets.

Asha moved hastily to pin him down with her body, using the tricks he'd taught her as a girl to control a stronger opponent. "Aye, dead," she snarled, "and you'll do her no good by drowning yourself in the bottle. You're behaving like a thrall, not a kraken."

"Say that again," Victarion dared her. "I'll wring your neck."

"You already tried that," she pointed out. "But you're too drunk to get the better of me, nuncle. You're sloppy. Soft."

The word seemed to enrage him, and he suddenly thrashed and bucked his hips beneath her, trying to throw her off. She managed to hold tight, knocking him a hard blow to the side of the head with her fist. Their chests were both heaving with the effort of drawing breath, and Asha no longer noticed the cold. Her heart was racing from the exhilaration of the fight and, if she thought about it, a certain arousal as well. Even laying aside the uncle issue, Victarion wasn't particularly to her taste – she preferred men younger and more slender, not heavy with muscle and grey-bearded – and yet she couldn't deny that having him struggling beneath her was making her slick with excitement. The very wrongness of it all only added to her morbid curiosity.

"Get off." He was clearly trying to put some authority back into his voice, but it only came out sounding pathetic. Broken.

Asha didn't loosen her grip, but lowered her body along his until she came within an inch of his face. "Make me," she hissed, only barely audible above the wind. "If you're a true ironborn man, then prove it." Her tongue darted out to lick his upper lip, still tasting the fire of the burnwine there.

With a roar, he threw his arms up, breaking her grip on them, and grappled her with his legs, thighs clenching tight around hers as he rolled her over. The now-empty bottle fell to the floor in their struggles, but neither of them paid it any notice. Asha squirmed, more to tease him than to genuinely try and break free. She managed to catch the laces of her jerkin between her teeth and yank them until they came apart, releasing her breasts to swing free beneath her light tunic. The cold air made her nipples stand hard as sea-rolled glass. Her uncle grabbed one of her breasts in his huge hand, cupping it roughly and running his thumb over its tip. She had fully expected he would be too drunk for this impromptu tumble to result in anything more than a few bruises, so she was surprised to feel a sudden stiffness pressing against her belly. She laughed as she twisted beneath him, feeling his length grind against her. "So it's true."

"What is?" Victarion's voice was thick with drink and lust, but she thought she also heard a trace of worry there.

"It rises again, harder and stronger," she said, arching up to meet his mouth with her own.

Victarion pulled his head back in disgust, but only after he'd first let her tongue part his lips. "Blasphemy," he spat, landing a sharp blow that left her cheek stinging and her eyes watering. He rose, fumbled on the floor for the empty bottle of burnwine, and covered the distance to the window in three long strides. With a roar, he hurled the fragile bottle out into the seething ocean below, then stood with one hand planted against the stone arch of the window, panting, staring out into the darkness, dark hair blown back from his face. "Get out," he snarled at his niece without looking in her direction.

Asha sat up, pulling her leather jerkin tight once more and re-tying the laces. There would be no further entertainment to be had here tonight, it seemed, and she found herself strangely disappointed. She thought about urging her uncle back to bed, but decided that would only result in a pounding, and not the type she desired. Perhaps if she left now, she might still catch Qarl the Maid before he drank himself senseless, and he would certainly give her what she was aching for. Or if not him, then another – it made little difference. But she couldn't resist a parting shot as she picked her way through the debris to the door. "Euron is gone. But if you let yourself drown in drink, he'll still have won."

The only answer she got was another bottle thrown at her head. She jumped to one side to avoid it, and felt shards spray against her left-hand side. Most fell harmlessly off her leathers, but one caught her on the palm of the hand she'd held up to shield her face. "Good night, nuncle," she said calmly, and walked away, sucking the wound.

The next evening, Victarion appeared once again in Balon's hall, his hair combed and beard neatly trimmed, the only suggestion of his ordeal the paleness of his skin contrasted with the dark circles beneath his eyes. He gave no sign to Asha that he remembered any of the events of the night before, but only greeted her affectionately, as any uncle would a much-loved niece who had been absent for weeks. As she embraced him, she breathed his scent in deeply, salt air and burnwine, and harboured a moment's inexplicable regret.


End file.
